Natural Born Killers
by InARedDressAndAlone
Summary: An assassin comes to Charming to help out her father's old friends. She thinks it will be a quick in-and-out job only to encounter an enemy from her own past and an uncomfortable attraction to SAMCRO's resident killer.
1. The Fixer

Disclaimer–I don't own anyone you might recognize from this story. They're their own property or that of their respective creators.

Note: This is slightly AU. In my world, Half-Sack & Hale don't die and the story doesn't go along with the plot of the show…but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

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**"Be polite, be professional…but always have a plan to kill everyone in the room."**

**-Eve "E" Hyde**

Only a handful of people were hanging around the bar at the Sons' clubhouse that Friday evening when the woman walked in. Several appreciative pairs of male eyes followed her short, curvy figure as she stepped up to the bar. She said something to the sweet butt tending the bar, and the girl turned away to pour her drink while the stranger leaned casually on the bar, scanning the room from behind a pair of dark aviator shades.

Juice peeled his eyeballs away from the newcomer to glance at the man sitting near him in a recliner, a blonde crow-eater draped over his lap.

"You see that, Hap?" He asked the older man, who just nodded.

"Think I'm gonna go welcome her to Charming." Juice stated with a cocky grin and a tug at his cut.

Happy watched the younger man cross the room to the stranger. Leaning against the bar next to her, said something even as his hand cupped her ass.

The next thing he heard was a loud crack, and suddenly Juice dropped to his knees, swaying as blood gushed from his nose and mouth, a 9mm pressed against his skull. Happy shot to his feet, reaching into his cut for his gun before the blonde even hit the floor.

In the few seconds it took him to stand and draw, he took in his target. She was standing there calm as you please, the gun pressed to Juice's shaved head in her left hand and another 9mm in her right, out but pointed at the floor.

He had her sighted in and was getting ready to tell her to drop 'em when the doors to the chapel behind him burst open as Clay, Tig, and Chibs stormed into the room. Clay drew up short halfway to the bar and put his hands on his hips.

"Goddamnit E, you just walked through the fucking door and you've already pulled a fucking gun on someone?" he thundered. The woman just smiled, a cold curl of her full lips.

"He grabbed my ass, so I thought I'd give him a lesson in manners," the woman said, as conversationally as if they were discussing the weather. "I thought you taught your boys better than that."

"What can I say? He's a slow learner," Clay shot right back. "You want to put those pieces away?"

The woman nodded her head towards Happy.

"Him first."

Clay turned to Happy and gave him a nod. He hesitated for a few seconds before sliding his Sig back in its holster. As soon as his hands were clear the woman pulled the gun away from Juice's head and tucked them both back into the double shoulder holster she was wearing under her black leather vest.

As soon as all the weapons were safely put away, Clay walked up to the woman and enveloped her in a back-smacking hug.

"I am damn sure glad to see you, you crazy bitch," he stated as he pulled away.

"I would have been here sooner, but I was out of the country when I got your message. You know how it is." Her voice was low and smooth, with a southern accent.

"You're here now and that's all that matters. How's the ol' Hammer doing?"

This time, the woman's smile was warm when she answered Clay's question.

"Pop's fine. The Black Lung has gotten a little worse, but you know that ain't gonna slow him down."

"Good, good. You remember Tig and Chibbs, don'tcha?"

"Evie-girl, it's good to see you," Chibbs said as he grabbed her in an enthusiastic squeeze that lifted her off her feet. Planting a loud kiss on her cheek, he lowered her feet back to the floor.

Tig looked down at her with his best charming smile on his face and arms spread wide.

"I knew you couldn't resist me. You came all the way to Cali just to get a piece of me, didn't ya babe?"

The woman actually laughed at that, the sound warm and rich.

"You're just too much man for lil' ol' me, Tigger darlin," she said as the third man embraced her.

Clay turned his attention to Tig.

"Get Jax and anyone else in town here in 10. I got some things to discuss and it ain't optional."

Tig turned away, phone already pressed to his ear. Clay surveyed the bar.

"Everyone NOT wearing a reaper on their back, get gone. NOW!" he barked, sending crow-eaters, sweet butts, and hang-arounds scrambling for the door.

"I'm guessing that doesn't include me?" the woman asked sweetly. Clay glowered.

"You stay. Everyone else not a Son, goes. Where's your stuff?" he asked.

"Still on my bike. I wanted to scope things out and find you before I settled in."

"Prospect!" Clay snapped at the skinny young red-head hovering by the door. "Go get her bags."

The young man's eyes bounced between his president and the woman. Taking pity on him, she smiled at him.

"It's the red and black Rocker."

The boy nodded like a bobble head as he headed out the door.

The other men seemed content to stand around and shoot the shit while they waited on their brothers, but Happy was busy studying this small, harmless looking female that had managed to get the drop on him and bust Juice's face all in the span of a couple of minutes. He mentally kicked himself for not noticing she was strapped when she came through the door.

His dark eyes raked her, sizing her up. She was a short little thing, maybe a couple of inches over five feet. You couldn't exactly call her petite, not with those big ass tits, tiny waist, curvy hips and round ass. Tattoos sleeved half of both her arms, and there was enough muscle under her copper-tan skin to tell him she was stronger than she looked.

Hell, so did Juice's face, he thought as he glanced over at the dumbass, who had managed to get himself into a chair. He sat there with his head tilted back, trying to stop his nose from bleeding with a bar towel.

Returning his gaze to the woman, he continued his assessment. Her hair was pulled back tightly into a thick ponytail of jet black that still hit her mid-back, making the eyes focus on her face, which was still half-hidden by those damn dark glasses. What he could see was a small nose, high cheekbones, and some very pretty, lush lips.

He let his eyes slip further down her body. A red tank hugged some truly spectacular tits, the word 'vicious' splattered across her ample chest in black, blood-spatter type script. The black leather vest she wore over the tank had to be there to cover the guns.

Faded, ripped jeans clung to voluptuously curved hips, exposing more tan skin on her muscular thighs, their ragged hem falling over studded, scuffed black motorcycle boots.

She reached for her drink and he saw that her hands were covered by fingerless black leather riding gloves. Something winked as she moved her hand, and a closer look revealed sharp studs over her knuckles that would cause some damage in a fistfight.

As if feeling his eyes, she turned her head slightly in his direction and he had a feeling that he was being assessed as well from behind those tinted lenses. A small half-smile quirked her lips before Tig spoke to her, drawing her attention back to him.

The prospect, Half-Sack, busted through the door carrying a big black duffel bag and a smaller version of the same. He stopped in front of Clay and the woman. She smiled warmly at him, and his face flamed red.

"Thanks, sugar. I didn't catch your name earlier." He got even redder at the term of endearment, if that was possible. He cleared his throat nervously before answering.

"They call me Half-Sack, ma'am. Where do I put these?" he asked, his gaze darting to Clay.

"Put 'em in that empty room that Gem cleaned up the other day. Made damn sure the sheets are clean and that it's fit for a lady.

"On it, boss," he said over his shoulder as he headed towards the bedrooms.

Jax, Piney, and the rest of the Redwood Original Sons that were in town had all filtered into the clubhouse while Happy was watching the woman.

Finally satisfied that everyone was present and accounted for, Clay stood to make his announcement. The woman was standing behind him, leaning against the bar.

"Boys, I want you to meet Eve Hyde. She's a friend of the club, here all the way from Kentucky. Her dad, James "Hammer" Hyde, is the prez of our Kentucky chapter. Some of you may have met him before. But this ain't no social call. I called E here because she is one of the best in the world at what she does. She can help us with our little federal problem, in particular. I want you all to treat her with the respect you would give another brother, and if she tells you to do something, you damn well better do it like it came directly out of my mouth. Any questions?

"What exactly is it that she does?" Jax asked skeptically. E stepped up beside Clay, finally removing her shades to expose big, dark eyes to the group of men. Hooking the earpiece of the shades into the top pocket of her vest, she looked around the group of men, meeting every one's eyes briefly before locking on Jax. She smiled again, that cold baring of teeth back before she answered.

"Well…people have problems. I fix them. Permanently," she said, looking around the room once more, seeing enlightenment dawn on most of the faces.


	2. Interlude

**Disclaimer–I don't own anyone you might recognize from this story. They're their own property or that of their respective creators. **

**Note: I had to switch this story to E's POV. It was the only way I could make it work. Hope ya'll don't mind! Thank you for the wonderful reviews/suggestions so far...and keep 'em coming!**

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My words hung in the few seconds of silence that followed that grim pronouncement. Jax started to say something, but was cut off by Clay's gesture for silence.

"We'll discuss this further in church tomorrow. For now, we're gonna give E a welcome party, SAMCRO style. Talk to her, get to know her, and most importantly, show her a good time tonight. Tomorrow's plenty early enough to talk business. Go on, get outta here and make it happen."

There were a few excited whoops as the men filed out to get the party together.

The pretty blond approached me, a smile on his face that I'm sure has dropped innumerable pairs of panties. He extended his hand.

"Jax Teller."

"Eve. I prefer E, though," I said as I shook his hand.

He cocked his head, studying me with intensely blue eyes.

"C'mon. Mom wants to see you before the party," he said as he turned, tugging on my hand.

I let him lead me towards the door. Movement glimpsed out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Turning my head slightly, I saw the man who'd drew on me earlier walk toward us.

Jax stopped short to speak to him, so I took the opportunity to size him up. Tall, tattooed, shaved head, and a leanly muscled body. He was probably in his late thirties, maybe early forties. His face could have been carved from granite, it was so expressionless.

"Hey Hap. How's your ma?" Jax asked.

"Doin' ok. New meds seem to be helping some," the man replied.

His voice was deep, raspy-rough and my hormones sat up and noticed. I looked up into that impassive face to find cool dark eyes staring back at me as he spoke with Jax. A tug on my hand turned my attention back to Jax.

"E, this is Hap. He's our resident wetwork specialist. Hap, this is E."

Those cold eyes raked me from head to toe, and back again. I knew that look. I saw it every day in the mirror. This man was a killer. Hell, Jax just said as much.

"So I heard."

Not having a ready response, I kept quiet and we all just looked at each other for a few seconds.

Jax finally tugged on my hand again, herding me towards the door.

"Talk to ya later man. I gotta take her to see Mom or I'm gonna get skinned."

The killer just gave a nod of his head as Jax led me out into the dying daylight.

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Gemma lit her cigarette, took a deep drag and blew smoke over my shoulder as we sat in the office of Teller-Morrow. I followed suit, and we smoked in silence for a few minutes.

I met Gem for the first time when I was twelve. She'd came to town with Jax's dad on club business and happened to find me in the bathroom of our clubhouse crying my eyes out. I'd started my period for the first time and was scared to death. She helped clean me up, explained a few things, and for the short time they stayed with us, took me under her wing.

The phone calls that followed got me through boys, school, and all the other shit that teenage girls go through.

I ended my mental stroll down memory lane when I noticed her looking at me with a particular expression on her pretty face. I knew that look. It meant that she was plotting something.

"It's always good to see you, sugar, but why are you here now?" she finally asked.

I tapped the ash off of my cigarette and met her eyes.

"Clay called and said he needed a favor. It seemed important, so when I finished the job I was on, I came here."

She rolled her eyes.

"When are you gonna stop bouncing around the damn globe and settle down? Find a man and have some babies. You're what, thirty now? I was married and raising two boys by the time I was your age."

I glared at the older woman.

"I'm thirty-three. What do you want me to do, Gem? Settle down with any Son that'll have me for an old lady? If that was the life I wanted, I'd have done it a long time ago. That ain't for me."

She shook her head, her boldly-colored hair swinging.

"You just haven't found the right man yet," she said, and that calculating gleam was back in her eyes.

"Oh no. Hell no, Gem. Don't start matchmaking. I'm here to do a job for the SAMCRO boys and that's it."

She must have recognized the stubborn look on my face, and wisely changed the subject. Standing, she walked around her desk and pulled me up into a hug.

"I just want to see you happy, baby, and I'm glad you're here."

She kept one arm draped companionably over my shoulder as we headed for the door and the already-raucous party.

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_Several hours later…_

SAMCRO certainly knew how to throw one hell of a bash, that's for sure. I'd been fed very well and plied with various kinds of liquor as well as numerous subtle and blatant offers to share my bed.

I think I've met every single patched Son of Anarchy on the west coast. Or it certainly felt like I had. I've had numerous conversations with Jax, Tig, Chibs, Bobby Elvis, and a host of other guys in SOA cuts whose names I can't recall at the moment.

Except one. I'd noticed the killer watching me with that damn blank expression a couple of times, but hadn't gotten close enough to speak.

I'd spent some time with Piney, who was a good friend of my dad's. We sat and talked as the old man had steadily worked his way through a bottle of tequila. The more he drank, the more outrageous the stories about their youth got. I'd laughed until my sides ached at the tales of their antics.

Finally, I had a moment to myself. Leaning against the concrete block wall of the garage, I lit a cigarette. Inhaling smoke, I let myself feel how tired I really was. I'm really getting too fucking old for this shit. Can't stay up for days at a time like I used to. Well, I can, but it takes more out of me now. The aches and pains I've been ignoring start creeping back into my consciousness.

All around me, people are in various stages of intoxicated merriment. A topless crow eater twirls around a stripper pole, her bare breast unnaturally large, round, and liberally dusted with glitter. The fires cast fantasy-like shadows across her bare skin and the faces of the men watching her.

A horn honks and I wave to Gem as she pulls away in her black caddy, blowing me a kiss as she passes.

Smiling to myself, I chuck my cigarette butt before pulling off my gloves and stuffing them in my pocket. The shiny skin of the new scar on my left hand gleams briefly as I try to massage some of the soreness out. The pick-me-ups I'd downed earlier to keep me going were wearing off, leaving me jittery and it was getting harder to act like a normal person.

Usually after a job I need to have time alone, away from people, to turn off the side of me that kills so easily. I hadn't had that decompression this time and I was feeling it. Suddenly, there are too many people pressing too close around me. I need to get away from them for a few minutes, try to get my head on straight and regain my control.

I step out of the light and into the shadowy garage. The comfortingly familiar smells of oil, gas, grease and metal fill my nose and I relax slightly. I grew up tinkering around in a garage like this with my pops.

Walking through, I trail my fingers along the slick paint of a beautifully restored Mustang. My footsteps make no sound as I drift further away from the noisy press of people. After winding my way through the bays and around the lifts I finally come to the loading dock. It was blissfully quiet and deserted.

My hands are on the concrete, getting ready to boost myself up to sit on the dock when I hear it. The slightest whisper of sound: fabric rustling and a faint clink of metal drifts from the darkness.

Adrenaline explodes into my veins, chasing away the exhaustion as I drop into a crouch in the deeper shadows. My guns are in my hands and I don't even remember pulling them. Reflex.

My eyes sweep the darkness trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound. I consciously slow my breathing to listen for anything that would tell me the location of whoever was tailing me.

The killer finally steps into the light, his hands empty at his sides. I stand slowly and lower my weapons. He comes closer, his movements smoothly predatory and every instinct I have is screaming. It takes everything I've got not to put my sights back on him.

Stopping about five feet from me, he crosses his arms, tattoos writhing in the moonlight. This puts his hand uncomfortably close to the gun I know is hidden by the leather of his cut.

"What are you doing sneaking around here?" he growls in that sexy voice.

I sigh. I am really too fucking tired for this shit.

"Didn't know I was sneaking. I just needed to get away from everyone for a minute. That a crime around here? You gonna draw down on me again?"

He just stands there, staring me down. A muscle in his strong jaw twitches.

I finally raise an eyebrow.

"Well? I'm waiting. If we're gonna do this, let's get on with it. I'm too fucking tired to play games tonight."


	3. Armistice

**Disclaimer–I don't own anyone you might recognize from this story. They're their own property or that of their respective creators. **

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He just stood there. Ah, fuck it. If he was going to make a move, he'd have done it by now. I slowly holster the H & K in my right hand. Don't want him getting twitchy.

"Listen, I'm not here to stomp on your ground or your position. I'm just here to do an old friend a favor. I'm not sticking around and I don't give a fuck about ya'll's club politics or whatever the fuck your problem is. I get that you're the enforcer around these parts, and I'd much rather work with you than around you. But I will do what I came here to do regardless. So either play nice or leave me the fuck alone. Your choice."

Wow, that was extremely diplomatic, especially for me. Now I'm annoyed.

I'm just about to holster my Sig and walk away when he finally speaks.

"You really a hitter?"

I can't help rolling my eyes.

"No, normal people usually walk around with two guns and bust stupid people in the face on reflex," I say, laying the sarcasm on a little thick even for me.

His jaw twitches again.

"You got a smart mouth, girl."

"I'm aware," I fire right back as I start to holster the Sig for the third time. But my bad hand decides to spasm and the gun drops from my hand to skitter across the pavement, landing closer to him than to me.

"Fuck," I snap, now annoyed and frustrated.

Before I can move to scoop it up, he bends and snags it. The P220c actually looks small in his large hands. He turns it, looking it over before extending it to me butt-first.

"Nice gun."

Wait. Did I hear him right? Something besides hostility, maybe?

I look at him, wary. His face is still as expressionless as ever.

"Thanks. Had to switch to a smaller grip on that side recently. My hand doesn't always do what I tell it to," I say as I finally holster the damn thing. If he's making an effort to be civil, so will I.

"What happened?"

Boosting myself up onto the concrete loading dock, I fish out a cigarette and light up before answering. Blowing out smoke, I raise my left hand so he can see the knot of scar tissue that pierces the center of my palm.

"Stabbed," I reply.

He steps closer and leans against the low wall to my left, pulling a smoke of his own out. A zippo flares, briefly illuminating his face before the rich, earthy smell of pot fills the air. A joint then, not a cigarette. Glancing over at him, I see he's still examining my scar.

"Stabbed with what, a machete?" he asks, taking another deep hit from the joint.

I smile and I know it's grim one.

"Something like that. Occupational hazard. There's always the risk of being shot, stabbed, beaten, tortured, or blown up in my line of work."

We smoke in silence, and I try to rub the cramp out of my hand. There is something intimate about sitting here with him in the warm, close darkness. He's not touching me, but he's close enough that I can feel him next to me.

Flicking my cigarette away, I turn towards him.

"Just so we're clear, I'm guessing that the fact that you're still here, we're having a civil conversation, and neither of us are pointing a gun at the other for the first time today means that you're going to work with me. Am I right?"

"Yeah. I just hope you're as good as you say you are. Cuz if you aren't, then we will have a problem. You get one of my brothers hurt, killed, or locked up and I will come down on you like a ton of bricks. We understand each other?"

Damn, that voice is really fucking sexy.

I meet the gleam of those dark, cool eyes and give him my best smile.

"Understood."

He leans back, totally seeming to be more relaxed.

"So you really wasn't sneaking around?"

I shake my head.

"No. I came here straight off a job, and I'm still a little twitchy. I usually need time away from people to try to put the monster back in the cage so I don't go completely psycho and start shooting strangers. There were just too many people I don't know too close around me and I had to get away from them for a few."

I tilt my head, considering the honed, lethal potential of his body that is displayed almost to perfection by the wife beater that hugs his muscular chest and showcases arms taut with strength. Faded, soft-looking denim hugs his lean hips and clings to well-built thighs. The chain looping from his pocket glints in the low light, drawing my attention.

It's an effort, but I manage to look back at the strong planes of his face. One side of those sensual lips quirks, and I know he noticed my appraisal.

"But I'm guessing you know exactly what I'm talking about."

Without answering, he extends the joint. I take it from his long, strong fingers and take a deep hit. The potent smoke burns in my lungs and in just a few seconds I can feel a head change as it hits me. It's some seriously strong shit.

"So, how many people you iced?" he asks about the time I start to exhale my lungful of relaxing smoke.

I choke, coughing and sputtering.

"Jesus." I finally manage to wheeze. "Isn't there a rule about asking shit like that? Shouldn't it be like asking how many people you've fucked?"

I see his lips curve a second before I hear him chuckle. The rich, deep sound tightens things low in my body.

I put a hand to my chest and a look of mocking surprise on my face.

"You smiled and your face didn't crack!" I tease.

"And you still haven't answered my question." he fires back.

I reach over and pluck the joint from his hand, making him wait while I hit it again.

"Fuck, I don't know. I've been doin' this for fifteen years. I do between six and ten jobs a year. You do the math."

He takes a drag from the joint and that damn blank look is back on his face.

"You expect me to believe a lil' thing like you has whacked a hundred and fifty people?"

I shrug.

"Believe what you want, doesn't make it any less true. One of the reasons that I'm so good at what I do is that I don't look dangerous. But in my case at least, appearances can be very deceiving."

I lean back on my elbows, feeling the sun-warmed concrete pressing against my lower back. Looking up at him, I can't help a small chuckle of my own.

"Wow, this conversation is a little psychos-r-us, even for me." I state, hoping to convey that the subject is closed.

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**Sorry for the short update, but my birthday weekend kind of got in my way. It's hard to write hung-over! Thanks for sticking with me, though!**


	4. Kiss or Kill

**I don't own anyone you recognize in this story. **

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We finish the joint in slightly more companionable silence. My hair suddenly seems very heavy and I realize that I'm a little high. Sighing, I tilt my head back to study the stars. They seem different to me. Maybe it's being on the opposite side of the country than I'm used to. Maybe it's the weed. I actually feel relaxed for a change.

That is, until I hear another slight movement and feel his eyes on me again. I sit up, the abrupt movement making my head spin a little. Blowing the stray wisps of hair that have escaped my ponytail out of my face, I give him a questioning look.

"What?" I ask, exasperated.

He shrugs, the movement doing interesting things to his tattoos. Ok, this guy is affecting me a lot more than anyone usually does. I've had better looking men and men with better bodies, but something about him just pulls at me.

"Nothin'" he says, but I can see what I think is a combination of doubt and curiosity in the little bit of expression on his face.

"I can feel you looking at me, you know," I state, gripping the edge of the concrete as I lean forward, trying to puzzle him out.

"Talkative devil. You know, that's actually a good interrogation technique. People naturally want to fill a silence, a gap in a dialogue. Y'know, give some information in hopes of getting some," I say.

His lips quirk in that almost-smile again.

I can't help smiling back. Dear god, what is wrong with me? Was that damn weed laced with something?

"Fine." I say, trying to wipe the smile off my face as I hop down from my perch on the loading dock. A little unsteady, I stumble when my feet hit the ground. Thankfully, I recover quickly before I find out what his half-step in my direction would have resulted in. Reaching into my vest, I remove the pistols from their holsters and lay them on the concrete before moving several feet away.

Turning away from him I place my hands on the gritty concrete before looking back over my shoulder.

"Alright big guy, if you still don't think I'm dangerous, pat me down. See if you can find everything I'm carrying," I challenge as I assume the position, stepping wide enough that a good foot sweep would put me on my ass.

I look at him again.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I've been up for three days and I'm a little high so my reflexes are a little dull. You ain't gonna get a better chance than this."

He finally straightened from his indolent pose against the wall and stepped toward me. He stops behind me, so close I can feel the heat of his body against my back. A tingle shoots through me. Maybe this wasn't my best idea.

I turn my head again to try to look at him, and my ponytail almost slaps him in the face. He's closer than I thought he was. I can feel an evil grin creep onto my lips.

"Then again, I could be faking. Telling you that so you won't expect an attack," I say, not able to resist needling him a little.

I feel him go absolutely still behind me.

"Are you?" he asks, that rough voice gone dangerously low. My grin gets wider.

"Only one way to find out."

He growls, actually fucking growls, and steps into me, forcing me more off balance. The tingle turns into a burn as that lean, dangerous body presses against my back. I can feel his breath on the nape of my neck and it raises goose bumps over my skin. The burn in my blood explodes into vicious desire.

Hard hands run leisurely down my ribs before raising the hem of my tank slightly to check my waistband. He plucks the two folding knives from the sides of my jeans and tosses them beside my guns. Those rough fingertips brush over my bare skin and I barely suppress a shudder. Moving lower, he deftly plucks the asp from my back pocket before sliding down my thighs with agonizing slowness. His calluses tease my skin through the rips in my jeans and I can feel the heat of his hands through the denim. He drops fluidly into a crouch behind me and raises the hem of my jeans to check my boots. It only take him seconds to lift my derringer, another folding knife and the bigger blade from my ankles.

Standing, he presses his body against me again as he leans over me to deposit them with the rather large pile of weapons on the loading dock. I can't help but suck in a sharp breath at the heated contact. It's been a long time, and this is seriously some crazy ass chemistry involving a man who's said probably less than two dozen words to me.

Those rough, strong hands grip my upper arms as he turns me around to face him. The top of my head barely comes above his shoulder and I find myself reading the tattoo that rings base of his neck. I have a sudden intense, insane little urge to lean forward and lick the hollow of his throat. Trapped between him and the loading dock, I look up into his shadowed face and my pulse kicks up a notch at how close he is.

Close enough to kiss or kill.

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**A/N: Sorry for yet another short update! I'm trying to get alonger chapter done but I keep coming up with these short little moments that I just have to share. Thanks to those of you who are bearing with me & keep reading! I promise it will be worth the wait.**

**Also, for those who don't know, an asp in a retractable baton that is often used by plainclothes law enforcement personnel because it retracts to about the size of a pen and therefore easy to conceal.**


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